


Pozhivom – Uvidim

by QuokkaMocha



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Angst, Apologies, Crisis on Infinite Earths Crossover Event (CW DC TV Universe), Episode: s08e05 Prochnost, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, One Shot, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Assault, Past Violence, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:35:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29720775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuokkaMocha/pseuds/QuokkaMocha
Summary: Whilst in Russia during the events of S08E05 (Prochnost), Oliver tries to make amends and Anatoly tries to come to terms with past events.
Relationships: Anatoli Knyazev & Oliver Queen, Anatoly Knyazev & Oliver Queen, Anatoly Knyazev/OC
Comments: 11
Kudos: 6





	Pozhivom – Uvidim

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a little scene, which takes place during S08E05 just after Oliver et al first arrive at Anatoly's bar. Warnings (as per tags) for mentions of past sexual assault and past violence.  
> I notice that there's no character option on here for 'Anatoly' spelled with a y, so I've created that option and also listed this with the alternate spelling with an 'i', but in the text I've gone with 'y' as that's how it's officially given on Arrow merchandise and on David Nykl's IMDB page.
> 
> The title is a transliteration of an old Russian proverb - поживем увидим, which translates as something like 'What will be will be' (literally 'We will live, we will see').

‘All right, I will go to find Burov, the hard way,’ Anatoly said before he left the group in the bar while he retreated to the little office he had made up for himself just down the hall. He left the door a little ajar so he could hear if anyone approached. An old habit that refused to die. It also meant, however, that he could catch fragments of conversation drifting through.

Children from the future. Only Oliver Queen would bring something like that into the otherwise quiet, drab little corner of Moscow where Anatoly had set up what he hoped would be his retirement project. But then only Oliver Queen would call out of the blue after everything that had happened and ask to stay. Only Oliver would know in instinct where to find him, when Anatoly had told everyone else he’d be gone for good.

Once he knew he was out of sight and earshot, Anatoly allowed himself to let out the breath he seemed to have been holding for hours. It took an effort sometimes to stay still in the presence of someone like Oliver Queen. All his concentration went into maintaining a façade of casualness, when inside, just the sight of that man brought back so many memories and their sting.

More than once, Anatoly had wondered how things might have been if he had never met Oliver on that island. Would he have escaped? Possibly. He’d had a few plans even before the young American showed up on the Amazo. Probably not, though, he admitted as he reached into his desk drawer for the good vodka, the stuff the customers never got a sniff of. More likely he’d have died and contributed a few organs to Ivo’s experiments. Still, it would’ve been an end to it all. Even if he had made it home alone, what then? Steady progression through the ranks of the Bratva? He’d probably be by Gregor’s side, oblivious to the possibility of any other life. He might even have been happy. Though more likely not.

He’d just poured himself a generous measure when he heard the floor outside the office creak. He’d never fixed that loose board because it made a decent intruder alarm. He could already tell from the weight of the step and the slow, measured pace who it was coming to see him and the waft of familiar cologne as the visitor pushed the office door open confirmed it.

‘I am doing it, Oliver,’ he said without looking round. ‘One drink is all, then I look through my contacts.’

He turned in his chair and raised his glass to Oliver Queen, who stood on the threshold with a serious expression. More serious than usual, in fact. Instantly, Anatoly felt uneasy.

‘They make this from potatoes grown in Chernobyl exclusion zone,’ he said, indicating the bottle on the desk, keeping his tone light so as to hide any trace of discomfort. ‘Very good, but so far I don’t glow in the dark. Maybe a few more. You want one?’

Oliver nodded and came further into the room, closing the door gently behind him as if he didn’t want the others to hear. Anatoly swallowed, watched the other man for a moment as he prowled around what little space there was in the office, then he brought another glass out of the desk drawer and made sure to pour a double shot into it before handing it over. They made eye contact before drinking but there was no toast.

‘I have a few ideas about how to…’

‘That’s not what I wanted to talk about,’ Oliver interrupted.

Anatoly leaned back in his chair and shrugged, hoping he still looked as nonchalant as ever. Oliver crossed to the desk and leaned on the corner of it, cradling his glass. He’d barely touched the contents. The air between them was like lead. This would be about Diaz, Anatoly thought. Oliver had never really had the chance to tear into him about that. Or perhaps the girl, Felicity. Maybe Oliver was mad that he’d given her a gun. Or it could be a dozen other things.

‘It must be strange,’ Anatoly said, trying to break the tension, ‘to see them all grown up like that. I don’t know how I would feel.’

‘Neither do I,’ Oliver said quietly. ‘I guess I’m glad. This way I have a chance to see them, tell them things. For a while it didn’t look like that’d be possible.’

‘This plan you have. You don’t think it will succeed?’

‘I don’t know what to believe,’ said Oliver. ‘But whether it does or doesn’t, somehow I have a feeling my time is running out.’

Anatoly laughed. It sounded more nervous than he’d intended. ‘You’re a young man. Having two grown up children must make you feel old, but they are from the future, tell yourself that.’

‘It’s not about them.’

Oliver drained the last of his vodka in one. Steeling himself, Anatoly thought, and wanted to sink further into the room, put a bit of distance between himself and the American, but it was impossible. His chair was already backed against the wall and the office was tiny anyway. There was nowhere to run.

‘I wanted to apologise,’ Oliver went on.

Anatoly frowned. ‘For what?’

The other man hesitated for a long while, keeping his gaze fixed on the bottom of his glass. Anatoly tried lifting the bottle to offer a refill, but Oliver only glanced at him for an instant, long enough to wave the bottle away. The quiet that followed was almost painful. Anatoly glanced towards the closed door, wishing one of the others would knock, call for Oliver or for him, anything to give him an excuse to leave that room.

‘You know, if anyone should apologise…’ he continued, but found he couldn’t finish the sentence. Whatever Oliver wanted, Anatoly wished he’d just get on with it. The longer Oliver deliberated, the more Anatoly became convinced something unpleasant was headed into this conversation.

‘I made life difficult for you,’ Oliver said at last, as if he’d finally decided on the best way to phrase his thoughts, ‘back then. I knew that at the time but I put it aside. I thought my mission and my… my problems were more important and justified everything I did. Which was selfish of me. And thoughtless.’

Anatoly tried to wave away the apology but Oliver looked up at him with such intensity that any other protests died. A lump of ice formed in the pit of his stomach and he prayed that was all Oliver wanted to say, that no one was going to dig up old corpses. It had taken so long to bury them. But he could see from the other man’s expression that he was still thinking, still struggling to find a way to voice what was on his mind.

‘I knew, Anatoly,’ he said at last, barely louder than a whisper.

Anatoly forced a laugh. It sounded pathetic even to his ears. ‘Knew what?’

‘I knew how you felt,’ Oliver replied in the same, even, serious tone. ‘Maybe I didn’t acknowledge it, because I didn’t know how or because it wasn’t something I wanted to deal with on top of all the other stuff going on in my life, which was… again, selfish, but I also know that, even if I didn’t say anything outright, I still used your… your feelings to my advantage and I am so sorry for that.’

It was Anatoly’s turn now to study the bottom of his glass. Again, he tried to shrug.

‘It was a long time ago,’ was all he could manage to say. He poured himself another drink, wishing now he’d got the bottle out earlier. He would much rather have been drunk for this conversation, if only so he could convince himself in the morning that he’d imagined it.

And it was a long time ago, he told himself. He’d long since given up any ridiculous ideas that his life and Oliver Queen’s might intertwine any more than they already had. It had been ridiculous from the very outset and he’d known that. It was not the first time he’d seen someone that, were the world different and the stars aligned in a better way, might have been worth pursuing. But the world was what it was. The stars were just lumps of rock and gas billions of miles away in the cold.

Still, before Oliver, there had been some hope. Not in Russia, not unless some huge sea change took place, but maybe somewhere else, where such things were permitted. As a young man, there had always been a ghost at the back of his mind of a future that could be, maybe, one day. He’d survived the constant fear of anyone finding out the sorts of thoughts that ran through his mind by holding onto that little glimmer of sunlight. One day he would leave this country and find somewhere and perhaps someone to make him happy.

‘I, eh…’ Oliver went on. ‘I also knew, or at least I kind of figured out, when I saw you in the hospital that time… About Gregor. What he did to you, I mean.’

‘He did nothing, it’s fine,’ Anatoly replied quickly and willed Oliver to just drop the subject.

‘It was my fault, Anatoly, I…’

‘It was not your fault,’ Anatoly said firmly. ‘And anyway, it’s in the past, it’s done. What point is there in talking about this now?’

It was already too late, however. The flash of memory he’d been trying to hold back got to the fore anyway. Ishmael Gregor and half a dozen of his men, jeering at him as they stripped him and bound his hands. _So you have a taste for American boys? You are willing to betray everything we stand for for the chance to take this man to your bed, is that it? You think if you help him, he will give himself to you?_

The beating he could take. He’d had worse. He’d known then, though, that Gregor wouldn’t leave it at that. Anatoly knew his comrade, Viktor, had suspected him, had noticed his lack of interest in the whores and strippers they brought to the bars and clubs, and had always resented the authority and trust Gregor placed in him. Viktor no doubt had told Gregor all sorts of lurid details about what Anatoly and this American boy had been up to, all pure fantasy.

In between punches, he’d seen one of Viktor’s friends break away from the group, and saw him return moments later with a pool cue. Anatoly remembered praying that they only meant to break his legs with it, though even at the time he’d known they were planning something far worse.

‘I just…’ Oliver said. ‘Apologising now means nothing, I know that. But it’s something I had to say.’

Anatoly realised he’d closed his eyes and, to his annoyance, felt a rush of warmth in his face that threatened to bring tears if he didn’t get a hold of himself. He inhaled slowly and deeply, trying to steady himself, before he mustered the strength to look up at Oliver again.

‘I had to do what I did to show them,’ he said, pronouncing each word with great precision, not only because it wasn’t his native language but to make sure none of the syllables cracked. ‘I had to prove to them that you meant nothing to me. If not… What Gregor did, I could tell them afterwards was his way of trying to discredit me. I could make it look like he was just out to get me for any reason he could make up, but to do that, to be convincing, I had to show them that I did not care for you at all. That was why…’

‘I know,’ said Oliver.

‘They would have killed me, if not worse…’

‘I know.’

A heavy silence fell on the little office.

‘I just need to know,’ Oliver continued in the same, measured tone, ‘that you’re okay.’

Anatoly scratched his cheek and in doing so, wiped away the one stray tear that had managed to escape, hopefully without being noticed.

‘You must really believe, whatever this is you intend to do, that you will not come back,’ he said, forcing a smile. ‘Is this what you’re doing? Going from place to place to make your peace with everyone? It may take you some time, if this is the case…’

‘Anatoly.’

‘I am fine.’ When no reply came, he looked up and found Oliver staring at him, his expression unreadable, though it was still obvious he didn’t believe that answer.

‘I am fine,’ Anatoly repeated.

Oliver sighed and Anatoly busied himself with the drawers of his desk, searching each one until he found the little book he kept some phone numbers in, the book that could easily be thrown into the Moskva if he needed to be rid of it in a hurry. As he worked, though, he could still feel Oliver’s gaze on him like the heat from a burning house.

‘What do you want me to say?’ he asked, tossing the book down onto the desktop. ‘You want me to say that, yes, on that island when I met you, I liked you? You say you know this. What good is there in me saying it now? What good would there have been in anyone saying anything back then? You were young, American playboy, Oliver Queen, women hanging off each arm. And what am I? So I like you. So what? All my life, I meet people and I think yes, this one is nice. But none of them are people I can say this to. And you want to know if I am all right now? Do you want me to say no, that I cannot sleep at night because I cry so much for what happened? Because I do not. I don’t think of it, Oliver. I don’t think about Gregor or Kovar or any of that. I don’t think even about Diaz now. Because why? I cannot change anything that has happened. I can only survive. And that is what I do. So if I say to you I am fine, I am fine, because this is what I have to be. There is no other choice. Other people might be able to sit and think about the things in life that hurt them, I am not. I can only make the best of what I have.’

And, of course, when he glanced down at the book on the desk, it had fallen open at _that_ number, one of the most recent additions, and the only one not in his own handwriting. For a moment, he stared at it, and almost felt the warmth of the sun on the back of neck and heard the insects buzzing and smelled the alcohol that stained the wood of the bar in Hulhudhoo. There was even a drop of something dark on the page, probably rum, just above the number. If he closed his eyes, he could picture the tanned fingers snatching up the pen that lay on the bar to scribble the number down, then the wide smile and ice-blue eyes. His name was Evan, though he hadn’t written it in the book. American, of course. It felt like someone grabbed his heart and twisted it just to think of his name, let alone remember the taste of his skin or his kiss.

For the first time, Anatoly allowed himself a genuine smile. He’d let Oliver think he returned to Russia because he was bored. That sounded better than admitting that, once again, he was running away. Because what began as a drunken fumble in hotel room had grown into something more serious. Because Evan had talked about coming back to the island and staying permanently, once he’d sorted things out at home.

How could he have asked him to give up his life for someone hiding such a past? How could he even begin to explain? Some of it had come out that first night. He’d told Evan a little of what had happened if only to explain his own reluctance, but he had kept all the details back, given only the barest account. Evan hadn’t pressed him for more, had held him and been patient and stayed even though Anatoly couldn’t understand why. One day though, he knew he would have to tell it all. Then he’d see the disappointment, if not hatred in Evan’s eyes and he couldn’t bear that.

And there was always the threat that Oliver Queen and the chaos that always followed in his wake might return, might put someone like Evan in danger. So he’d left, gone back to the cold to wait out life alone.

But that, he realised, was not what Oliver needed to hear. Anatoly had no idea what was really going on, but he knew the man well enough to see he was deeply worried. What satisfaction would it bring, he wondered, to let him leave here feeling guilty? For either of them?

‘But if you mean,’ Anatoly continued, ‘do I hold any grudge towards you for any of it, the answer is no, and I think you know that.’

It was like saying he’d be happy. There were some things you just had to keep repeating until they were true. Eventually the brain and the heart would give in.

Oliver nodded and gave a half-smile. Anatoly thought he saw relief in the other man’s eyes. He rose and went to offer his hand, then changed his mind at the last and drew Oliver into an embrace. He felt nothing, he realised, beyond a slight lightening of his own mood now that they had passed the darkest part of the road. There had been a time, years before, when every atom of him ached to be this close to this man, but whatever there had been, it was gone now. And oddly, its absence made him feel a little lighter too. Maybe it would be like that one day with Evan too. Or maybe… He risked a glance at the address book as he stepped back towards his desk. Once again, it had fallen open at _that_ page. What would he have to lose by calling, telling Evan everything? Assuming Evan accepted the call. If he explained why he’d run and told Evan everything at least then he’d know for certain. He could hear Evan tell him to get lost. He could mourn the final severing of ties, but then that would be it.

And there was, after all, always that slim chance he might understand.

‘Your children will be wondering where you are,’ he said quietly to Oliver. ‘I’ll see if I can find someone who knows something about Burov.’

He watched as Oliver finally left the room and moments later heard him talking with the others down the hall. Anatoly decided he would see what he could do to help them, make a few calls, as he’d promised, then he’d finally see what he could do to help himself.


End file.
